You Can Be King Again
by madzcool
Summary: Now that his life has begun to calm down after the horror of the Nogitsune, Stiles feels like the only one of his friends unable to move forward, and he finds himself seeking comfort in Derek Hale. [Sterek, canon compliant, rated M for sex, unerdage drinking, and swearing, a fanfic about comfort after tradgedy and events taking place after Season 3B]


**You Can Be King Again**

By Maddy

_**Author's Note:**__ [THERE WILL BE MANY SPOILERS FROM SEASON 3B AHEAD]__I wanted to write about events that take place after the end of season 3b, however, I also desperately wanted to give the characters time to cope with the tragedies that happened and show the fallout from it, so I decided to ignore the last scene in the finale. I just really want to write about how I think the characters will cope with the death and experiences they've had and the relationships created because of it, so either all of this happened __**before**__ Kate returned and shot Derek, or we can just pretend that that didn't happen yet. Either way, the rest of this fic follows what happened in canon. I usually only put author's notes at the end of my fanfics, but I thought this was an important thing to note beforehand. I hope you enjoy!_

**Chapter 1**

Stiles can still hear Allison's voice in his head if he wants to, the exact tone and inflection she'd put on her words. He can hear it like she's still here and as somehow comforting as that is, he can't stop himself from fearing the moment he can't hear it any longer.  
No, fear isn't the correct word, terrified maybe; cripplingly, nauseatingly, pathetically terrified.

But that's nothing new in their lives is it?

They'll all forget eventually, Stiles thinks. Maybe not Lydia though, he thinks she may remember even long after Scott. He's not sure if he thinks this because of her powers and hearing as a banshee or because of the sound of her scream as she was curled over Stiles' limp body in that desolate hallway, so many months ago.

He thinks it's probably the second reason.

Stiles can still hear that too. The endless scream ringing in his ears over and over, sound waves bouncing off unforgiving cement walls, so heavily insulated, as if to keep something out. Or perhaps keep something in.

He'd been so far gone at that point, his body so fragile and hollow. He had tried, he really, really had, but all of that running; his heart was screaming and his stomach attempting to heave out the food he hadn't eaten. He was just a shell and he knew it, the Nogitsune sucking and scraping out every last bit of his humanity until he was just a running sack of skin, and he couldn't take it.  
He wishes that he hadn't cried out to Lydia for help.  
He wishes that she hadn't stayed with him while he had gotten her best friend killed.  
He wishes that he wasn't responsible for her death, for Lydia not getting to be with Alyson in her last moments. Didn't get to hear the last words she would ever speak. She didn't get to hear how she saved them all.

Stiles knew what had happened as soon as Lydia had opened her mouth and let out her scream, he felt it reverberating in the air, in the walls, in his skin and bones.  
Allison was dead.  
Oh, how Stiles wishes he wasn't responsible for that.

Stiles thinks things should be back to normal now, well, as normal as things can be. Their lives will probably never be the way they were before.  
But no, there's too much loss now, too many holes that will never be filled.  
But they have all been trying.

Scott has been making a valiant effort really. He's even been in school, been talking to other people besides Lydia, Malia, and himself. Stiles can honestly say that he's proud of his best friend.  
Scott still hasn't talked to Kira. It's been almost two months now, since they locked their demons into that small wooden box.  
He feels bad for her really, he knows that she came into this whole thing as an outsider, knows how much more foreign and confusing everything must be for her. But still, he understands why Scott hasn't talked to her. He can see the pain in his eyes when they're talking quietly in the dark of Stiles' bedroom.

Scott doesn't talk about it much, the last words that Allison spoke. After everything had calmed down, after that small wooden box had been buried away so deeply that no one would ever find it again, the subject seemed to be somewhat taboo.

No one would talk about it, go into details. Stiles understood that she had figured it out, about the silver arrowheads, but that's all he really knew for some time. It wasn't until Isaac had disappeared from Scott's house only to move in with Derek and the third week of Scott's avoidance of Kira that Stiles had finally pried the information out of his best friend.

It had been some time around 3:30 in the morning, their hushed voices echoing around Scott's darkened bedroom, when Scott had finally told him.

Stiles can't say he was surprised really, can't say that he gasped in shock and clutched quivering fingers over slightly parted lips, but it hurt. It had been a punch to his gut and he could hear her say it now. Could hear those last proclamations of love leaving her scarlet-stained lips and it hurt so much worse than he thought it would.

Stiles hadn't known what to say. He hadn't known how to react to this information.

He had realized with a start that he was ANGRY. How dare she? How dare she leave them behind with those words laced with so much love and regret and finality? How dare she be responsible for the way Scott was looking at Stiles now, with wide terrified eyes, pleading with him to say anything, do anything, to make this stop hurting so badly?  
But Stiles knew she wasn't responsible for that, he is.

So Stiles had fought the stinging in his eyes, swallowed on a dry throat, and hadn't said anything. He'd tugged his best friend closer and let him bury his face into the soft material of his oversized t-shirt and held him while he shook and dug his fingernails into him too hard.  
Scott hadn't cried, Stiles knew he wouldn't do that.  
Not then anyway.

Stiles can't say that Lydia is doing as well as Scott is.  
She's been attending school on a regular basis, getting straight A's, but no one can really say they expected anything less from Lydia Martin. But she's distant; she seems to be off in her own head even more than Stiles is. She's still herself but her tongue isn't as sharply barbed, her temper not taking control, and her retorts are slow and forced if even there at all.

Stiles spends as much time with her as he can, had even stopped by her house multiple times the first week things were back to "normal", but she didn't seem to want to be around anyone.  
He felt like he only made it worse, his face only a stark reminder of the blood spilled and the friends lost.

He sometimes has to remind himself that Lydia not only lost her best friend but her… whatever her and Aiden had been.

Stiles can't bring himself to think about Aiden's death on most occasions. He hadn't exactly been close to him. He had in fact, had many reasons to resent and even hate him at times, Lydia being one of them. But he helped save them all in the end, he'd died a hero while Stiles is still driving to Lydia's house to give her soup and unwanted company.

He's just more blood on Stiles' hands, another weight covering his heart and filling his stomach with lead, and it makes Stiles feel disgusting. He likes to think that if he just doesn't think about it maybe it will go away. Maybe it will all just be another dream.  
Stiles doesn't bother counting his fingers though, he's done enough of that these past couple months.

Lydia has been spending a lot more time with Kira as of late which seems a bit odd to Stiles if he's being honest, but he's happy that she's talking to someone.

If Stiles is being really honest Lydia's probably doing a lot better than he is himself.  
Everyone is really.

It seems like all of his friends have started to recover and, slowly but surely, move forward with their lives. Stiles can't claim that he's doing the same.

When he closes his eyes, even just to blink, Stiles can still see that desolate hallway stretching out in front of him, blocked partially by Lydia's trembling arms clutching at his hollow body. He can still feel the fake snow melt against his cheeks in that imaginary courtyard, can still hear the deafening clang of metal on metal and the snap of Scott's elongated teeth and rigid jaw. He can still see Kira's small form clutching the sword she'd never before used and the blood of his friends decorating the white ground beneath his ratty sneakers.  
When Stiles closes his eyes he can still see his own hands planting the bomb in the police department, he can still see himself twisting the knife into Scott's stomach with a smile on his face.  
Stiles can still see Allison dying.  
Over.  
And over.

The worst part is, the part that hurts the most and makes his insides twist and clench with despair, is that he can't talk to his friends about it.

Maybe he can, he supposes, maybe he should in fact, but he won't let himself.

They don't know the feeling of forcing a sword through your best friend's stomach, the feeling of trying to kill your own father, of being responsible for yet more death in the only family he'll ever have.  
And that aside, Stiles still knows his face is just a reminder, and elaborate painting of what he'd done; A snapshot of the past him that they will never be able to see the same again.

Stiles doesn't like to think about how his friends see him now. He doesn't like to think about how now when he smiles they'll recall a sinister smirk, and when he touches them how they'll occasionally flinch.

Maybe if he pretends long enough, all of this will just be another dream.

Stiles isn't exactly sure what led him to Derek.  
Maybe it's because he's sick of the wary faces of his friends, he needs something new. Someone he knows wouldn't flinch at his touch even when he was void.  
Maybe it's because he knows that Derek understands loss and death better than anyone. Hell, Derek probably understands better than Death himself.  
Maybe it's because Derek also understands what it's like to have people look at you with a shadow of your past clutching to your flesh. Maybe Derek understands what it's like to feel so disgusting.

But none of these explanations make Stiles feel better, they only make his stomach clench and turn with nausea and the calloused palms of his hands itch with anticipation as he stands in front of the giant metal slide doors to Derek's loft.

Stiles feet had just seemed to lead him here. He has just gotten done with lacrosse practice too, his sports bag still slung over his shoulder and his hair damp from a hasty shower. He hadn't called Derek either. Stiles honestly finds it a bit odd that Derek even had a cell phone for some reason. He still pictures him as some stoic brooding wolf-man that lives in the charred remains of his childhood home in the middle of the woods. The fact that he lives in a semi-furnished loft and is even capable of having a somewhat civil conversation still doesn't quite compute in Stiles' brain.

Stiles had been told that Derek was right on the front lines searching and fighting for him the entire time. Had been in a jail cell because of him, had been injured in an explosion because of him. The vague, darkened memory of Derek fighting the Oni to protect his void body flashes through Stiles' mind and before he can stop himself he hears the hollow clang of his fist rapping against a heavy metal door.

The door swings smoothly open much faster than he'd been expecting and Stiles has to stop himself from letting out an embarrassing yelp of surprise.  
There's no way that Derek had gotten to the door that fast, even with his freaky werewolf speed. Although Stiles supposes that Derek could probably smell him, and he _has_ been standing here awhile.

"What do you want Stiles?" His voice isn't annoyed just slightly… tired. With more than a hint of his usually gruff nature mixed in.

"Oh you know, just wanted to hang." It only takes Stiles half a second to fall into his casual mannerisms and sarcasm around the irritable man in front of him and he grins cockily at him as he strides past him into his large living courters.

As Stiles drops his bag and kicks it unceremoniously towards the nearest wall he starts making his way towards Derek's large blue couch. He notices a disturbing silence has taken hold.

"Uh… why?"

Stiles blinks at him for a moment before flopping onto the sofa with a smirk.

"What, I need an excuse to hang out with my favorite sourwolf?" His words are cocky and sure of themselves and he finds it somehow easier to fall back into this pattern with Derek, finds it easier to act like his old self. Maybe it's the knowledge that Derek hadn't seen him much when he was void, didn't have to look at this face when he was twisting the sword in.

Derek scowls and heads toward Stiles to join him on the couch and Stiles thinks he might have won when Derek says, "Since when do you want to 'hang out' with me? Where's Scott?"  
His words hold no malice but Stiles really doesn't know how to respond so he just lowers his eyes and shrugs vaguely.

Derek doesn't say anything for a while, his dark eyebrows hunched in confusion and a bit of worry before he sighs heavily and grunts out, "Fine then, you have to help me with dinner. You interrupted."

Stiles eyes shoot up to find that Derek has already left the couch and is making his way towards the door to what Stiles presumes is his kitchen.

Stiles hops up excitedly and calls out, "You cook?!"

Derek turns and gives him a scrutinizing look and says, "I do have to eat."

Stiles is surprised to find the kitchen in actually pretty immaculate condition. The rest of the loft is so empty and devoid of furnishings and basic human decoration that Stiles has to do a double take at the fully stocked shelves with dozens of canned goods and even a few spices.

"Well damn I didn't expect you to be all Martha Stewart!"

Derek doesn't respond, just rolls his eyes and starts turning knobs on his stove.

"What're we making?"

"Noodles."

Stiles nods.

"Not so Martha Stewart-y then I guess."

Another shrug.

Stiles watches Derek empty an entire packet of long slender noodles into the waiting pot that is presumably filled with boiling water from the bubbling noises Stiles hears permeating the kitchen.

It's weird seeing Derek do domestic things like cooking and boiling water, hell it's weird just to see Derek casually walking around his home. Stiles might have a heart attack if he ever sees the ex-alpha cleaning.

Stiles snorts at the thought and Derek raises an eyebrow at him as he sets down a block of white cheese in front of him and a cheese grater that he seems to have pulled out of thin air.

"Grate."

"Aye aye chef." Stiles says, giving him a mock salute to which Derek responds with one of his trademark stoic stares before turning to prod at the noodles with a wooden utensil.

As Stiles drags the oddly soft white cheddar over the ribbed metal his mind begins to wander.

At times like these he can almost forget the screaming when he closes his eyes. He can almost forget the look on Scott's face when he told him what Allison said as she died.  
It's times when he's active, when he's doing things and not letting his body lay idle like his thoughts. This coupled with the odd company of Derek Hale seems to have him fully forced into some kind of limbo of thought.

This is what causes Stiles to grate his knuckle roughly against the sharp metal in his grasp.

"Ah!" Stiles yelps and yanks his hand away, attempting not to get any bodily fluids on the food.

Derek gives him an unimpressed look as he tosses him a band aid from a first aid kit he pulls out of a cupboard and Stiles makes an over exaggerated whine in response as he wipes his finger on a rag and raps the cloth on gingerly.

Whenever Stiles bleeds he can't help but feel a fluttering pang in his chest. It's such a clear reminder that he's alive, that he's not hollow anymore, that he's himself.  
He stares intensely at the small spot of red blossoming on the cloth and runs his other finger over it carefully and hums softly to himself.

After a moment he realizes that Derek is watching him with some guarded concern in his eyes and Stiles quickly goes back to grating and clears his throat.

"So where's Isaac at? Haven't seen him in forever."

Derek watches him a moment longer before returning to putting another pot on the stove and pouring some milk and other ingredients in.

"Isn't here much. I'm not sure where he goes. He sleeps through there though." Derek gestures his head towards the large living area to Stiles' right and Stiles assumes that he's referring to the room past the large hole in his brick wall that is now covered with a large off-white sheet.

"Mm."

They fall into a comfortable silence again.

It's odd, Stiles thinks. He knows that Derek isn't exactly a people person, and he knows he doesn't exactly engage in polite conversation like normal people do, but Stiles feels oddly comforted in this warm kitchen with the smell of fresh noodles and odd spices.  
It's not like him and Derek have ever really been civil with each other, ever really called each other "friend", but hell, he's saved Derek's life on more than one occasion, and Derek has saved his; Fairly recently. So it makes them something.  
And Stiles would hate to admit it but he's always found Derek to be a somewhat calming constant in his life. He's always just… Derek.  
And despite being slightly fearful for his life during 50% of the conversations they've ever had, Stiles can't help but think Derek has a bit of a soft spot for him too; At least enough to spend weeks searching for him. Although that hadn't been solely for Stiles' well-being, it had been for everyone's really.

"How are you?"

The question almost makes Stiles jump and he nearly drops the grater a second time.

He looks up hoping to find some kind of sarcasm or explanation on Derek's face but he's facing the stove and measuring out something in a spoon.

"I've… been better." Stiles isn't sure what makes him say that, but he does.  
There's not much point in lying anyway. He's already in the guy's house grating his damn cheese for him.

He notices Derek looking at him out of the corner of his eye and he suddenly finds the thin slices of white slipping down the shining metal incredibly interesting.

Stiles isn't sure if this silence is comfortable anymore. He wouldn't call it awkward.  
He's not really sure WHAT to call it.  
It seems like even the silence with Derek is confusing and unable to be labeled.

"I make extra so… you can eat if you want."

Stiles is a bit thrown by this statement. He's not sure what he expected Derek to say but it definitely wasn't that. He just finds himself saying, "OK."

The silence is comfortable again.

They eat on Derek's bizarrely large couch on mismatched plates.

It turns out Derek had been making alfredo sauce, which Stiles had managed to make another Martha Stewart joke about much to Derek's annoyance.

The sauce is actually really good, far better than his dad can make; although his mom's would put this to shame. But then again, no one could cook better than Stiles' mom could.  
Stiles tells Derek what he thinks but the other man just shrugs slightly and continues to eat more food than should be possible for any man to consume, werewolf or not.

Derek's loft is so ridiculously large and spacious. That would be fine as long there were some actual furnishing in it to accompany the vast amount of floor space but all that's really there are a rather large well kempt bed pushed against one of the far walls, the enormous blue couch they are currently sitting on, and random bits of training equipment propped places. Plus a mirror and some random chairs and clutter than Stiles guesses were there when Derek moved in.  
He uses the term "moved in" lightly.

"You don't have much stuff dude."

Derek shrugs again as he's swallowing another large mouthful of noodles, his eyes still not quite meeting Stiles'.

"Don't need much."

Stiles raises an eyebrow at this.

"Well sure, you don't necessarily _need_ other stuff but like, a TV would be nice. Or maybe like, some pillows. Or... decoration. Of... any kind."

Derek does look at Stiles now but only to shoot him an incredulous glare.

"Hell man I'd even settle for some throw pillows. You know, make it… homey."

Stiles smirks at the last part of his sentence. Looking around Derek's loft it's really the last word that comes to mind.

"Did you just come here to critique my housekeeping and eat my food?"

Stiles grins bigger at this. "Maybe." He says taking another generous bite of noodles.

"I mean, do you even have a bathroom? A washing machine? Or do you just, like, grow a new cotton t-shirt and leather jacket every day?"

"The bathroom's through the kitchen dipshit." Derek grunts out and Stiles can't help but think he only responded to shut him up.

So that's where that mysterious door on the other side of the kitchen led to. Stiles had assumed it led to some dank werewolf cave where Derek hid bodies or dark secrets from his past, or perhaps maybe a pantry considering it was apparently impossible for the guy to have too many weird canned preservatives available. The fact that it was a bathroom was almost disappointing, if not vaguely amusing in some way.

Stiles would voice his opinion if he wasn't too distracted by-

"And your washing machine?"

"Don't have one. I go to the coin wash in town."

"Oh." Stiles says. He isn't sure why he can't find anything else to say to this, but he just can't. He doesn't quite know what to do with this information, isn't even really sure why he wanted it in the first place. It's pretty pointless, most would find it completely uninteresting in general, but Stiles can't help but find it slightly fascinating. He'd never really thought about how Derek behaves as a normal person before. Ok, he has actually, like, a lot.

It's just weird; Derek's the dark mysterious high school drop-out whose family perished in the Hale fire. He's broody and sullen and always seems to be on a completely different level of bad-assery than Stiles can ever hope to achieve, and on top of all that, he's a freaking werewolf. Just picturing Derek doing daily activities like grocery shopping, (what kind of cereal does he like? Stiles hadn't seen any cereal in Derek's kitchen earlier...) buying clothes, (how many leather jackets and black t-shirts and jeans can one man possibly own?) paying rent, (does he have a landlord? Maybe he killed him and that's really what's behind that door through the kitchen); Stiles finds it fascinating and he can't help but want to find out the answers to all of them.

Stiles is startled out of his thoughts by Derek asking him, "So how's Scott?"

Stiles' heart beats faster at the question for some reason. Like just saying the name will suddenly bring back every memory of himself when he was void and Derek will look at him with that hint of unease and regret like all the others, but he doesn't. Derek's gaze is level and curious as he pushes another fork-full into his mouth and Stiles can't help but wonder how he swallows fast enough to not end up looking like a chipmunk.

Stiles considers his options on how he could respond here. He could give him a short response, one designed to satisfy polite conversation like the ones he's been giving for months now, or he could actually answer. Something makes Stiles choose the second option.  
Maybe it's only because of the lack of consequences in this situation, or maybe it's because Stiles thinks that Derek might actually understand to some degree; he doesn't have time to analyze his choice though because he's already saying,

"I'm not sure. He's going to school. He still hasn't talked to Kira though."

Derek just nods slowly, seeming to process the information before moving back to his food.

Stiles is almost positive that he isn't going to respond when he says, "I can understand that. Why he isn't talking I mean."

Stiles is slightly taken aback by the response but he does his best not to show it. He hadn't really considered the fact that Derek might know about Allison's last words. It makes sense that he would know, Stiles thinks, but he has to clarify, if only for whatever is left of his sanity.

"You know, about... what Allison said right? I mean besides the silver and-"

"Yeah."

Stiles' head bobs slightly before he takes another bite.

After a moment of silence Stiles says, "I get it too. I mean, why he doesn't want to see her. I feel bad for her though, you know? All of this was pretty new to her."

Derek 'hmm's softly before asking, "What about you?"

"What about me?" Stiles' eyebrows scrunch together in confusion.

Derek shrugs slightly but it looks forced to Stiles, looks like a cover of nonchalance over a far too serious conversation he is not ready to have; Did not come here to have. Why did he come here?

"Having someone else in your head can't be fun."

Stiles doesn't make eye contact, just drifts back and forth between the random bits of clutter and equipment strewn around the loft. He hears the clunk of Derek setting down his empty plate on the heavy oak coffee table in front of them.

Stiles laughs nervously as he fiddles with a ragged cuticle on one of his bony fingers.

"Not really something I wanna talk about yet." Stiles isn't sure why he added the 'yet' on there. He did it without thinking and he almost wishes that he could take it back. Almost.

He half expects Derek to pry deeper, or perhaps awkwardly change topics, talk about anything else, but Derek just watches him with a level gaze. Stiles heart skips a bit at the fact that he still isn't making that face at him, that face that so many other's use now.

Stiles clears his throat hoarsely to break the tense silence and says, "So what do ya got to do around here anyway?"

Derek scrunches up his eyebrows at him like the question is completely nonsensical.

"I mean you don't have a TV, or video games, or music, or…anything really. So what were you gonna do?"

"Well I _was_ going to work out and take a shower."

Stiles sighs heavily. "Of _course _you were. Do even have, like, any board games or something?"

Derek raises an eyebrow at Stiles in the most judgmental fashion Stiles has ever witnessed and he vaguely wonders if Derek's face could get stuck like that somehow.

Stiles grumbles slightly to himself before his eyes light up with realization.

"You got any alcohol?"

Derek squints at him.

"Last time I checked you're still in high school."

"Oh, don't pretend like you give a shit about drinking age ya big stick in the mud." Stiles is already half way to Derek's kitchen at the end of his sentence and Derek is begrudgingly following behind.

It's a small handful of minutes later that Stiles is popping out of a cupboard with a triumphant "Aha!" and a mostly full bottle of store-brand vodka.

"I knew you had something!" Derek looks like he's going to attempt to argue again but Stiles has already unscrewed the cap and is taking a shallow swig so Derek just interjects, "Jesus, at least use a glass for God's sake."

Stiles smacks his lips comically and scrunches his eyes in disgust at the burning in his throat before responding, "What, I don't have cooties."

Stiles is sure that the alcohol must be working a bit too quickly because he swears that he sees Derek's lips turn up in a bit of a smile then.

Stiles grins cockily with the confidence from the taste still singed on his tongue and a bottle in his hand as he scoots past Derek and back toward the couch with lazy footsteps.

Derek joins him there with a bit of hesitance but Stiles just shrugs it off and takes another large swig. This time he coughs a bit and sticks his tongue out at the burn and he's sure he sees Derek smirk.

Stiles grins back; he can already feel the warmth spreading in his chest slightly, his head just a bit fuzzier than usual. Stiles has always been a lightweight, he's known since 6th grade when him and Scott stole a bottle of his dad's imported whisky to smuggle out into their tree house.

Stiles remembers that he has to pace himself though, he still has to get home. He crinkles his nose, he guesses he has to walk then. He didn't think that through but he's finding that he can't care too much.

He's suddenly reminded of the moody werewolf sitting all too cautiously beside him and he holds the bottle out to him gingerly.

Derek squints at him again like he's trying to solve a difficult math problem with a dozen spelling errors and Stiles just sighs heavily and says, "Don't make me drink alone, you'll just sit there brooding."

Derek cocks an eyebrow at this but just shrugs and takes the bottle with ease to which Stiles lets out a mock cheer.

* * *

Stiles isn't sure how much time has passed. He feels weirdly light, like he could just float up, up, up, until he disappears into the night sky. Except they're not outside, and Stiles is honestly unsure of whether it's night time, what with the heavy drapes covering the large windows. Why doesn't Derek have a freaking clock like a normal person?

Stiles realizes that he could just check his cell phone but it's in his back pocket and he's currently lying down and it just seems like far too much of a hassle to dig it out.

Stiles is also aware that he has most likely drank too much, that he should have headed home a good hour ago, but he's far too light and warm and comfortable to care.

After a good fourth of the bottle had disappeared Stiles found that he just couldn't stop talking as is usual when Stiles is drunk. His ADD always seems to go into overdrive in some weird way; it's an odd mixture of sluggish reflexes and babbling and flailing limbs that can only be described as Drunk Stiles. Usually Stiles finds himself talking about Lydia in these situations with Scott, waxing rhapsodic about her strawberry blonde locks and golden brown eyes, but even in this drunken state Stiles can't find the motivation to talk about Lydia. He knows that it's not going to be the same, knows that talking like that will only be a reminder of the uncomplicated past.

Derek has had at least the same amount of vodka as Stiles has and he really doesn't seem to mind much as Stiles rambles on and on. Stiles thinks that Derek might have a much higher alcohol tolerance considering his werewolf powers but he seems to be content, his head lulled onto the back of his couch and his eyes watching Stiles' over-expressive face and flailing motions with far more interest than Stiles thinks he should have for what he's talking about.

Stiles happens to be currently talking about kung fu movies and the sever lack of them. He can't even recall how this topic had come up but it certainly hadn't been from anything Derek had said. The other man had only interjected once when Stiles had almost spilled half the bottle on his cushions to which Stiles only laughed and handed the bottle over to continue his story without further distraction. Derek had just smiled almost fondly and returned to his relaxed position to listen.  
Stiles thought it was odd, he had never really seen Derek smile before. Not like that anyway. Stiles isn't sure why he is tonight, why he seems looser, Stiles has a strong suspicion it's the alcohol. He finds that he doesn't really care what it is, just prays that the image will stay burned in his brain after he wakes up sober tomorrow and for as long as he can keep it. Stiles tells himself that it's only to tease him with later, to tell Derek that he's not as dark and brooding as he pretends to be, but Stiles knows somewhere in the bleary haze that he likes it; that he thinks it's pretty. He also knows that that's a stupid way to describe it and would probably be more annoyed at himself if he wasn't so focused on his current ranting.

He's moved on to the topic of different types of bread and his head has somehow ended up in Derek's lap.

He'd been lying down on the velvety blue cushions for some time now, his arms gesturing and wriggling in the air in front of him to emphasize over-pronounced words on a slurred tongue. He'd somehow scooted farther up until his head was resting on warm jean-clad thighs and Stiles couldn't remember if Derek had said anything, had objected in any way, but Stiles doesn't think that he had. He's just looking down at him now, watching with a slightly amused expression as Stiles questions the purpose of Dave's Killer Bread.

"I mean, the stuff is basically just a bag of seeds!"

As he continues he feels Derek's fingers card lightly through his shortly cropped hair and he forces himself to continue without a break because he likes the way that feels and he doesn't want Derek to stop yet. Stiles knows that he should feel slightly more alarmed or even curious at the actions of his, (friend? acquaintance? ex-alpha?), but Derek looks unsure enough for the both of them and the feeling of nails brushing lightly through his dark locks reminds him of how his mom used to do it.

Stiles had always been labeled as "smart", even at a very young age, and he was always told this was a good thing; but people don't seem to understand the amount of stuff that builds up inside of his head. He'd also always been told that he had a "big mouth" and that he "talks too much" and that he's a "smart-alec", which he quickly learned were NOT good things. But people just didn't get how hard it was with all of those thoughts in your head. There are constant words and ideas and stupid jokes and names all swimming and building and collecting and it's hard not to say them all on a whim; but Stiles learned to control himself, learned how to keep quiet. The problem with this is that his mouth would be shut but those thoughts and words would still keep building and building until he felt like he was going to explode; until he DID explode. He was told that these are called "panic attacks" and that these are also not good; although he had worked that much out himself. So his mom had worked out a system, a special time where Stiles could come and talk to her as much as he wanted and get all of the thoughts out. He would babble and ramble and say every little thing that had wormed it's way into his consciousness and would often end up with his head in her lap and her fingers gently stroking through his hair as she listened with a fond smile; her head nodding at all the appropriate times and only stopping him to ask small questions and make remarks.

The way she looked at Stiles reminds him a lot of the way that Derek is looking at him now.

Although Derek makes his head feel slightly fuzzy, and his heart beat a bit too fast, and he knows that his stomach flipping probably isn't completely due to the amount of alcohol he's consumed in the past hour or so.

He doesn't realize that he's stopped rambling until Derek's fingers still and he's being given a slightly quizzical look from light green eyes.

Stiles sits up suddenly and looks at Derek, just looks for a moment.

Stiles isn't stupid, he knows what he wants to do, knows what the irrational, hormonal part of his brain is begging for. He knows what he's wanted to do many times before, but for the first time, he actually considers doing it.

Stiles finds Derek attractive. Like really, annoyingly, disturbingly attractive; but he's pretty sure that's true for anyone with eyes. He notices lots of things about him too, lots of little things that he's pretty sure most other people don't notice. Stiles likes his confused face and how his eyebrows scrunch together and lips purse in almost the exact same way every time and how his jaw twitches in slightly different ways when he's mad or worried. Sometimes he chews on his lip when he's concentrating and Stiles has had to look away on occasion with the tips of his ears slightly pinked. Derek is just such a reliable CONSTANT in Stile's life, he's just so... _Derek._

He's pretty sure Derek knows about these things though, at least a few of them. After all, they've been in incredibly close proximity to each other on multiple occasions. Never by choice, but still, the guy can SMELL hormones and hear how fast someone's heart is beating so he's obviously not completely clueless.  
Although a lot of that could be chocked up to fear considering most of the circumstances and not because of the way Derek's shirt smelled against Stiles' cheek, and Stiles suddenly realizes, finally pieces together what that smell is. It's that cheep laundry softener you buy in packets out of a vending machine at a Laundromat, the kind he'd only ever used when he went on vacation with his mom and dad when he was nine and Derek looks concerned now, his posture slightly less relaxed and more wary and he looks somehow younger than normal and Stiles says, "Screw it." and before he can stop himself he's kissing him.

Stiles KNOWS that he shouldn't kiss him. He knows that he's only making things worse for himself, that he just came in and ate Derek Hale's food, drank Derek Hale's booze, and KISSED DEREK FREAKING HALE; and he knows that he's being selfish, but all of this knowledge still doesn't stop him. Because, what does it really matter at this point? He is selfish.  
He was void and hollow and he tried to kill every single person he loves and now he's drunk in Derek Hale's loft because he can't face the very friends he stabbed and the way they look at him because he isn't fully convinced that he's not _still _void and hollow.

He's selfish, so why not take more?

He knows Derek is going to push him off, knows that he's going to be thrown out and things won't be the same now, probably more tense between him and the wolf, but at least he'll have this, at least he'll have the memory of Derek's chapped lips and the warmth in his chest and the fuzzy lightness of his head. He thinks that Derek probably should have pushed him off by now but suddenly he realizes, holy crap, Derek is kissing him _back,_ and wow, that was REALLY not what he expected to be happening here.

There is MUTAL kissing going on and Stiles REALLY didn't think Derek was this drunk, but Derek is kissing him back harshly and holy hell, his hands are tangled back into his hair and Stiles is being pulled roughly closer.

Stiles is grabbing the front of Derek's dark t-shirt and before he can decide against it he pulls Derek so that they're flush together and Stiles almost yelps when Derek drags him impossibly closer and Stiles decides 'fuck it' as he climbs the rest of the way to straddle his hips, his knees sinking down into the deep blue.

Stiles pulls away to breathe in sharply, only for a second, but Derek is already pulling him back in and working his lips over Stiles' own trembling pair and _holy shit _Stiles thinks as Derek rubs his tongue roughly against his bottom lip. Stiles doesn't even think about it, consider his options for a second, before he opens his mouth and pushes back because this is _Derek_

This is the guy that's saved his life a decent handful of times, the guy that taught Scott how to control his powers, the guy that he's had the hots for probably since eighth grade, (And wow he's definitely never going to admit _that_ out loud), and suddenly Stiles loses the capacity to think because Derek is a REALLY good kisser.

The drag of Derek's tongue against his own is dizzying and all Stiles can really taste is the burn of the vodka but he imagines what Derek tastes like underneath that and he's finding it harder not to grind his hips down into the waiting pair below him, but would Derek even want that? Why is he even kissing him and-

Stiles is ripped from his thoughts once again by the tight grip on his hips and he literally has to hold back a moan at the touch, holy _hell Stillinski get a hold of yourself_, and then Derek is tilting his head to deepen it and Stiles _does_ moan. Over the smack of lips Stiles hears Derek almost growl in response, hell maybe he DID growl, but the noise is what makes something snap in Stiles and he drags his hips down so that their clothed crotches grind together, and holy jesus Derek is _hard_, and that thought is almost enough to make Stiles lose it right then and there.

He can't remember a time when he felt wild like this, when he felt this out of control and lost to everything. Even with Caitlin at that random party or down in that basement with Malia it hadn't felt like _this_.

Stiles barely felt like he had control over his body, was lost in the deafening blurry haze of alcohol and lust and the subtle scratch of Derek's slight stubble against his chin, but it wasn't like how it was with the Nogitsune. It wasn't the kind of out of control that had him terrified and waking up in a cold sweat every other night; this had his breath catching and his hands clawing roughly at soft cotton and he suddenly wanted to give himself over to this forever, just wanted to tumble endlessly in this hazy blur of lust and mutual _want_.

Just as Stiles is thinking this Derek pulls away from him, their lips audibly disconnecting, and Stiles doesn't want this to end, not yet, so he drags his hips down once more, delighting in the rough hitch in Derek's breath and the fingers tightening on the flesh of his hips.

"Wait, wait." Stiles is suddenly being held still be strong hands and he wants to keep moving, keep swimming in this intense heat they've created, but something in the way that Derek speaks, in how wrecked he sounds, makes Stiles still and open his eyes to the face only centimeters from his own.

Derek looks wilder than Stiles can remember ever seeing him without being in full blown werewolf mode. His eyes are so dilated they're almost black and his dark eyebrows are scrunched downwards like it's taking all of his concentration not to push Stiles down into the couch and eat him alive. Stiles vaguely notices that his lips are puffy and wet, fuller than they usually are, and the realization that _Stiles did that_ is almost a shock to him and he can barely stop from pushing himself roughly against them again.

Stiles makes a low whining noise to voice his protests and tries to move closer again but Derek stops him with firm hands on his chest and Stiles can feel his heavy breathing against his face as he speaks.

"You're drunk."

"So?" Stiles asks, still a bit to fascinated by the flush pink of the other man's lips.

"And I'm drunk, and you're... Your dad's probably worried sick and you probably aren't even supposed to be here."

"Dad doesn't care, probably thinks I'm at Scott's." Stiles is finding it hard to properly string together words to form sentences and that the tightness of his pants is almost painful and he desperately wants to do something about it.

"Stiles," Derek's words sound almost pained now, forced out. "You are a drunk 17 year old on my lap at 10:00 on a school night, I'm pretty sure you can understand my hang-ups here. And I'm not even going to get into the legality of this right now."

Stiles briefly wonders how Derek can possibly know what time it is before letting out a breathy laugh as he sighs and he rests his forehead against Derek's. He breathes out shakily as he says, "Didn't think a werewolf would care about age of consent."

He hears Derek huff out a short breath in response and he thinks it may have been a laugh but he can't tell because his eyes are closed and Stiles wills his heart to slow down as they both attempt to get their breathing back to normal. When Stiles thinks he's almost done it he opens his eyes to find Derek staring back at him and Stiles leans in and presses a chaste kiss against his lips and then another. Just quick pecks because the fact that he probably won't get to do it again makes his heart hurt and Derek's lips are just _right there_. Stiles stops though, keeps them quick and simple because he doesn't want Derek to push him away again, doesn't think he can take it, but when he opens his eyes again Derek's are half lidded and he's pretty sure that Derek wouldn't have anyway.

Stiles suddenly starts to feel uncomfortable for the first time since they'd kissed and pulls himself away from Derek with shaking fingers and crawls off of his lap and onto the couch beside him and half-assedly attempts to hide the obvious tent he's pitching in his jeans.

Derek doesn't appear to be doing the same with his own and Stiles feels himself flush slightly at the sight. Derek's head is resting on the back of the couch like when he'd been listening to Stiles drunken rambling, except this time he's looking up at the ceiling with a pleading look like he's begging for something. Stiles isn't sure what he's begging for but he's pretty positive that it has something to do with him.

Stiles leans his head back as well and carefully lets out a shuddering breath and Derek's neck rolls slightly so he can look at him.

Stiles clears his throat awkwardly, feeling slightly terrified and more than a little unsure of what to do in this situation. There are no manuals on what to do when you accidentally make out with your sort-of guy friend who also happens to be a werewolf with more damage in his past than a JK Rowling character.

"So... I guess I should go." Stiles desperately wants his words to sound strong and sure of themselves but his throat is suddenly ridiculously dry and it comes out croaked and sounding a bit too much like a question.

"Neither one of us can drive." Derek points out with an unimpressed eyebrow raise.

Stiles crinkles his nose and says, "Oh. Right."

"You can sleep here. If it's alright with your dad."

Stiles heart thuds a bit at the suggestion and he tries not to let his mind wander.

Stiles considers his options, or lack there of, and tries to hide the nervousness in his voice when he says, "Yeah, it's fine."

Derek just nods and stands up and says, "I'll take the bed."

Stiles can't stop himself from snorting and saying, "Gee thanks."

He's pretty sure that Derek smiles but he's already walking away in the direction of the kitchen and Stiles briefly wonders what he's supposed to do but Derek quickly returns with a few sheets and he snatches an extra pillow off of his bed before tossing the whole bundle at him.

"Sorry, it's all I got." Derek says as he makes his way back towards the bathroom. "I'm gonna take a shower."

Stiles has to bite his tongue to hold back any cold shower jokes that might slip past and he watches silently as Derek retreats back across the loft on slightly uneasy steps that show just how much alcohol he's taken in tonight.

Stiles shifts uncomfortably once he's alone and when he hears the soft patter of water running in the distance and realizes that Derek is going to be a while he flops back onto the couch with all the grace of a pterodactyl and roughly pulls the sheets over himself. He wishes that he had something more comfortable to wear to bed but he knows that all he has in his sports bag is a change of clothes incredibly similar to the ones he's wearing now and he is DEFINITELY not going to ask Derek for something to wear, this whole situation is already awkward enough. Besides, it's not like he's going to be getting much sleeping done anyway; Stiles can't sleep without his pillow. He's been lugging that thing around since he was a toddler; to every sleepover at Scotts, to every overnight fieldtrip, even on road trips. His mom had made the pillow case for it and Stiles loved the way it smelled like her so she sprayed a bit of her perfume on the inside for him. Long after everything of hers had lost its smell that pillow case had still kept her scent as if she could be right there carding her soft bony fingers through Stiles' hair as he rambled. Of course the pillow had lost its smell now, just the scent of Stiles and lavender laundry softener, but Stiles thinks of it as some sort of security blanket or familiarity in any situation.

But still, as Stiles adjusts the borrowed pillow beneath his head and tugs the second sheet over himself, he can already feel a wave of exhaustion wash over him.

As Stiles relaxes into the soft velvety feel of the couch his normal senses slowly start returning to him and the reality of the situation strikes him like a slap to the face.  
He had kissed Derek. Derek had kissed him back. They had made out. Him and Derek had almost _hooked up_.

That thought made Stiles' heart start to beat a bit fast again. Would Derek actually _want _to go that far with Stiles? The image of Derek's dark pupils blown wide with want and his fingers digging so tightly into his hip bones flashed through Stiles' mind and he shivered.

Stiles doesn't exactly have all that much experience in the bedroom department. I mean sure, he's kissed girls before, and he'd gone pretty far with Malia in that basement, but they hadn't had sex. Neither one of them had a condom, they were in a _mental institution_ for god's sake; they weren't stupid. Stiles realized the sever lack of appropriate consent issues in that situation, and yeah, he'd done more in that basement then he had before but… he was most definitely still a virgin.

To be completely honest Stiles feels almost guilty about what happened between him and Malia. It's not like it was just him, or even his idea really, they were definitely both into it and there hadn't even really been much talking in general but… The girl had been a _coyote_ for ten years. It's not like she's as stable as a normal person, has had any real experiences. Hell, she hadn't even really _met_ many people besides Stiles and his friends and the nurses and other crazies from the psych ward.

They had both been so scared, felt so hopeless. Stiles could feel the Nogitsune clung at his back, slowly creeping into his consciousness. He had no way out and the feeling of himself being slowly hollowed and the ever present sting of the Kanima venom slowly wearing off was making his stomach ache and burn for what he knew was coming and he just couldn't stop thinking about how nice Malia had looked when he'd walked in on her in the shower and then they were _kissing._

Malia had been in there much longer than Stiles had. At least a good handful of days, maybe even weeks, and the thought makes Stiles' heart ache. She'd been responsible for the death of her mother, her sister, she'd been a wild animal for almost her entire life until they'd ripped away the fur and forced her into human form only to throw her back into a life that she didn't quite fit.

Stiles hates that.  
Hates that they had been responsible for such a kind girl to feel no other option then to lock herself away in such an awful place.  
Hates that their guilt had turned into them fooling around in the basement of a mental hospital with the body of an ancient demon buried in the decrepit wall.

Malia is out now of course, is attending their high school and sure Stiles had talked to her, even sees her and converses on a daily basis, but he can't find it in himself to bring up what happened between them. Malia is wonderful. She's kind and strong and almost as sarcastic as Stiles on a good day. She's beautiful and Stiles can openly admit to his heart thudding and creeping up a bit into his throat when she's close but every time they talk Stiles can't help but feel this overwhelming layer of guilt.

She's been having multiple sessions with Scott and Derek to learn to control her werewolf abilities and Stiles has happily accompanied her on many of them. Malia has even tried to talk about it with him in private, tried to bring it up at least twice, but Stiles has avoided it as best he could and she seems to understand, seems to get that he needs time, and Stiles is eternally grateful for that. But Stiles also knows that it's unfair to leave her hanging, leave her thinking that it hadn't meant anything to him.

But now he's here, on Derek Hale's couch with Derek Hale most likely taking a cold shower in the other room, and everything suddenly seems that much more impossible.

Stiles groans to himself and scrubs his hands over his face roughly wishing he could just wipe his worries away like a white board.  
Stiles is still undoubtedly drunk, semi-hard and ridiculously turned on, and utterly exhausted. All he really wants to do is go home and jerk off, and take a hot shower, and fall asleep in his comfortingly familiar bed with his comfortingly familiar pillow and dream of nothing. But he knows that he can't, that he's put himself in this horribly awkward situation and now he's stuck in it.

He's made his bed and now he has to lie in it, no pun intended.

Stiles wriggles as he shoves a hand underneath him and digs his cell out of his back pocket.

'**sleeping at scotts**'

Is all that he sends his dad in way of an explanation before turning it off and sliding it onto the cool wooden coffee table in front of him.

Stiles knows that his dad will believe him, will trust his judgment.  
After they'd finally disposed of the Nogistune, locked it away in a wooden tomb and things had returned back to "normal", Stiles' dad had been ridiculously overprotective for awhile. He'd checked in on Stiles practically every other hour, tried to talk to him about everything, but after awhile he realized that Stiles just needed his space and respected that. They'd been through things like this before, lost a member of the family, someone they loved, and the sheriff knew how Stiles copes. It all feels painfully familiar to Stiles. The way his dad is letting him get away with shirking small responsibilities and chores that he normally wouldn't, working more hours at the station than usual, and when he is around he talks to Stiles just a bit too tentatively to sound normal.  
It almost makes things worse, but not really.

Stiles hears the water shut off and some shuffling and creaking before the door clicks and swings and he snaps his eyes shut on impulse.  
This will all be a lot less awkward if Derek thinks he's already fallen asleep.

Stiles suddenly feels incredibly stupid because he's pretty sure that Derek can probably tell if someone is asleep or not from their heart beat but Stiles finds that he'd rather just act like a stubborn child and keeps his eyes squeezed shut.

He evens out his breathing as he hears Derek's footsteps get closer and he can sense Derek standing over him to the left of the coffee table. Stiles suddenly gets that familiar pang of fear that maybe, just possibly, Derek is going to rip his throat out like he'd threatened so many times before, and just as Stiles feels his pulse begin to pick up slightly there's rough fingers brushing gently through his mop of hair.  
Stiles isn't sure whether Derek thinks he's actually fallen asleep or if he just doesn't care in his drunken state, but the fingers feel just as nice as before and Stiles can't help but lean into them slightly. If Derek notices he doesn't show it.

The fingers' lazy movements halt and after a beat he hears the footsteps fade away farther to his left and Derek's presence disappear as he heads toward his bed shoved against the back wall.

When Stiles hears the faint creek and shuffle of fabric he opens his eyes and realizes that Derek had turned the lights off at some point.

As Stiles eyes slowly adjust to the darkness he scrunches up his eyebrows in thought.  
He wonders what Derek is thinking, frowns at how impossible it is to tell. How impossible it always is.

"Just so we're clear, it wasn't just because I'm drunk."

Stiles doesn't know what makes him say it, but he almost immediately regrets it.

The only answer he gets in return is a tense silence and a quiet shuffle of fabric and Stiles decides to leave it at that. He decides that he doesn't regret saying it because there's really no sense in not being fully honest at this point.

Stiles lets himself relax back into the blanket and breathes out slowly.  
As much as he hates to admit it, the overwhelming smell of Derek that permeates the borrowed sheets and pillows he's using, is incredibly comforting. He can't help but feel like he's sleeping next to a friendly guard dog just waiting to strike any attacker, and in some odd way, he kind of is.

Stiles lets himself sink into it, just floating around in the smell of vending machine laundry detergent and Derek. He smiles softly at the warmth still radiating in his chest from the alcohol and the tingling spots on his head where Derek's fingers had brushed through, and before Stiles knows it, he's fallen asleep without his pillow for the first time in years.

* * *

_Hello again! Bet ya didn't know I ship this too did ya? I swear, every fanfiction I publish on here is for a totally different pairing from a totally different fandom. I almost have all my OTPs covered now I just have to do Johnlock and Kyman. *wiggles eyebrows suggestively*  
Anyway, yeesh, this was a monster of a chapter! I've been feeling the strong craving to write a long fic delving into the emotional fallout from this last season, and I just couldn't stop thinking about the idea of Stiles coming to Derek for comfort and healing after everything was over, because in some sense Derek would understand better than others. So, I finally gave into the craving and thus, the first chapter is born. I'm not sure how long this fanfiction is going to be as of yet but I do know that there is going to be at least a few sex scenes so if you don't like smut then this is probably the only chapter for you. I usually don't like to include smut in stories that I want to be based heavily on character development, but I talked about it with my beta reader and I agree with her that sex scenes won't take away from the development and plot and will actually add to them in this case. *whispers* I'm still kind of nervous to include them though…  
It may be awhile before I post the next chapter of this because I'm also working on updating my Crenny fanfiction and these chapters are so freakin' long, but I hope you continue to read and reviews are very motivational and awesome!  
-Maddy_

_P.S. The title of this fic is because of the song "King" by Lauren Aqualina .That song makes me think of Derek and Stiles in 3b so much. (Bonus points if you remembered that Derek was the king on Stiles' chess board) If you listen to the lyrics the words are almost perfectly symbolic of them in this last season._


End file.
